


Cigars and Whiskey

by thatbitch11



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cold War, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Nationverse, Parental England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatbitch11/pseuds/thatbitch11
Summary: Early January,1964In the wake of the Kennedy assassination, America goes on a downward spiral.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Cigars and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a historical fic, about a time period I know a lot about! Let me know if you want more historical fics from me :)

America lit a cigar during the world meeting break with unstable hands, ignoring whoever she felt staring a hole into her back.

“It’s not ladylike to smoke cigars, America.”

She wrinkled up her nose, and took a puff, turning around to see the last person she wanted to at the moment.

“I don’t remember asking.”

Russia shrugged, and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his own coat pocket, giving her one more look of disgust. 

“I don’t understand Americans.”

“T-then don’t.” She said jumpily as disdain dripped from her voice, deciding she’d had enough, and walking to join anybody but him.

He watched her silhouette disappear around the corner of the large brick building, and scoffed to himself. 

_Attractive with no brain, represents her nation well._

  
  


America grumbled to herself as she went to find the cafe she’d seen England go into when break started, finding him sitting outside with a newspaper in hand.

“That filthy red doesn’t deserve his immortality.”

He chuckled, and put his newspaper on the wrought iron table.

“You have to start leaving him alone Amelia, a world meeting is the last place for a fight.”

  
  


This only made her angrier, as she fully expected the nation she considered to be her parent to support her in this sentiment. An angry puff off her cigar followed.

“Don’t encourage this feud dear, I can see it in your eyes that you want to fight.”

He gave her a warning look over his teacup.

“Don’t.”

“That’s crap and you know it.”

England raised an eyebrow at her choice of words, and set the cup down.

“There’s no need to be crass.”

“And stop smoking cigars, they’re not ladylike.”

  
  


Her eye twitched as she took another puff off of it.

“You male nations can smoke cigars all day, why can’t I?”

“Have you been drinking?”

America laughed loudly, and clumsily crossed her legs.

“Do you expect that little of me? Obviously I’d be sober at the world meeting.”

He leaned his head on his fist, and gave her a look that sent shivers down her spine.

“How much have you drank today? You smell of drink.”

“None, maybe _you’re_ the one who’s been drinking.”

  
  


She had, in fact, been drinking.

The thought of seeing Russia face to face again so soon after the assassination of JFK sent her into a paranoid tailspin that only her boss was vaguely aware of. Still reeling from his death, she had taken to many of the things that reminded her of him. The more obvious ones being his love of bloody marys and Cuban cigars, among other earthly pleasures of his.

The occasional bloody mary or imported beer that he enjoyed didn’t compare to the constant liquor in her cup though. Nowhere near it, actually.

  
  


Johnson had given her a few months off to grieve, which she was thankful for, but it had only exasperated the problem she’d been fighting on and off since prohibition. Comparatively, she _was_ sober at this meeting, at least relative to the state she’d been living in for the past month. 

Nobody needed to know that though, especially not England.

“America, look at me.”

Glassy, bloodshot eyes under exaggerated false lashes met his.

“We need to sober you up.”

“But I’m not drunk.” She said arrogantly, crossing her arms.

  
  


England let out a deep breath as she watched her try to light the already lit cigar.

“I thought you were done with the bottle Amelia, you promised me.”

“That was what, thirty years ago? And don’t call me by my human name, it’s _America_ to you.”

He gave a disgusted look as he picked up his tea once again, mentally trying to decide if this was worth his energy. While the worst behaved of his former colonies _was_ struggling, she was still an absolute nightmare to deal with almost two centuries post independence. 

Stubborn, brash, arrogant, aggressive, and now a drunk. Delightful. 

“Would you rather me tell France that you’ve shown up to a meeting drunk? Or West Germany? Or would you rather admit that you’re drunk, and sober up a bit?”

“I’m going home, that’s what I’m doing.” She said with a sneer, making his blood boil.

“You cannot just _leave_ , you’re hosting.”

America heavily hoisted herself out of the chair, and put up her middle finger, flooring him. 

“America!”

She ignored him, and walked over to the edge of the sidewalk to hail a taxi, close to stumbling into lunch hour D.C traffic. 

Something parental in him snapped, and he ran toward her, grabbing her away from the road. 

“I’m taking you home, yeah?” He said as he put his hands around her shoulders, more to steady his own nerves than anything else, “I’ll tell the others you were ill, but we’re getting to the bottom of this.”

England breathed raggedly as he forcibly made her sit back down. 

“How far do you live from here?”

Now exposed for being intoxicated, she gave up on putting up a front, and pulled a flask out of her briefcase.

“‘Bout half an hour, it’s a townhouse on Irving.”

He sighed as he sat down across from her, and watched her open the flask.

“This int good for you, surely you know that by now.”

America shrugged, and took a swig from it before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It’s not like I can die.”

“Answer me _honestly_ this time, how much have you drank today?”

She took another swig, and looked as if she were trying hard to concentrate.

“I always have a couple shots of liqueur with my coffee, and I think I refilled this? I really don’t remember.”

A loud laugh followed, and she raised the large flask as if to give a toast.

“The world is mine anyway, I’m the hero!”

“Give me that.” England said through gritted teeth, snatching the flask out of her hand, and shoving it in the pocket of his plaid sports coat.

“You’ve had enough, let’s get you home.”

  
  


The drive to her house was silent except her giving directions as he maneuvered his rental car according to what he remembered about American traffic laws, which was admittedly very little. It was probably still better than what his passenger could do drunk, he tried reasoning to himself as he got honked at by a taxi.

“Do you have your keys at least?” He asked as he parked on the street, turning to America, who was half asleep.

She nodded, and opened her briefcase, pulling out a keyring after a few seconds of blindly groping at the contents. 

“Can you walk fine love?”

The glare shot at him answered his question, though he stayed close behind in case she stumbled. 

From the moment the door was unlocked, a wave of old alcohol and tobacco smell hit him, and he tried his best not to gag. America was never the tidiest person he knew, but this was the worst he’d ever seen a place she was living. Bottles covered every countertop and table, her ashtrays overflowing to the point of tipping over. 

He got her set up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of hot coffee in an attempt to sober her up, and hesitantly ventured upstairs.

The bedrooms in the home seemed untouched by the mess downstairs, and he decided staying there was the best thing to do at the moment. Letting her drink herself into oblivion was painful to watch, and he wanted to at least be able to say that he tried to help.

  
  


How to convince the rest of the nations that their host was ‘sick’ when she’d obviously just been drunk at an important meeting was another story though.

“Hello, is this the National Union Building? I need to speak to Ludwig, this is Arthur calling.”

A familiar choppy accent answered a few minutes later, and he didn’t sound happy.

“Where did you and America go? You cannot leave, this is imp-”

“I know,” he sighed, and ran his fingers through his previously gelled hair, only making it look worse, “but she were ill, and asked me to take her home, I’m proper worried about her health.”

West Germany sighed, and mumbled something that he couldn’t make out.

“I knew having her host so soon after her leader died was not a good idea, but she insisted. I’ll have France bring the transcript for the rest of the meeting t-”

He perked up at this, knowing that France had always been better at handling her outbursts.

“Tell him to come to America’s house, yeah? Thank you loads for understanding.”

  
  
  
  


Despite the caffeine offered to her, she was sound asleep by the time he finished his phone call upstairs.

America didn’t even seem to be at peace in her sleep, fitful under the heavy blanket while muttering words he couldn’t make out. Watching this stirred a poignant sense of worry that he wasn’t quite able to explain, and he crouched down next to the couch she was laid out on.

“You’ll get through this Amelia, I know you will.” England said softly as he pulled the blanket closer to her face, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head like he did when she was a child.

  
  
  


She didn’t wake until the sun had already gone down, to a splitting headache. And the smell of something cooking, surprisingly. 

“E-England? Are you trying to cook?” She asked despite her throat feeling like sandpaper.

“No, it’s me, he’s at his hotel room.”

America sat up quickly, making her headache even worse, and forcing her to lie back down.

“What the hell are you doing in my house France?”

“Watch your language, you’re a lady.” He said in a sickeningly sweet tone that heavily bordered on condescending as he walked from one side of the kitchen to the other.

She smacked her lips, and shut her eyes tightly. 

“Sorry for the mess by the way, I wasn’t expecting _guests_.”

“I can tell, England and I had to clean it all.”

The teen grunted as she ran a hand through her hair, summoning the energy to open her eyes and reach for the bottle she usually kept on her coffee table. 

“France?”

“Yes Amérique?”

She squinted, and gave the now empty coffee table another good look.

“Where’s the drink I had here? I need it.”

“You don’t, first of all,” he said in the same saccharine tone, turning on the tap for a few seconds before walking into her living room with a glass of water, “and water will help you more than whiskey.”

“I don’t think you understand, I need _something,_ not water. I nee-“

“Water, coffee, or juice, no alcohol.” 

America stared at the glass sitting on her table with disdain, then back up at where France had made himself comfortable in her armchair with a newspaper. 

“You can go right to hell, where did you put my liquor?”

He raised an eyebrow as he turned the page of the paper, an amused look on his face.

“You don’t need that in your home, that’s all.”

“I’m a superpower, I don’t need some irrelevant European nations coming in and infringing on my rights.”

He took a deep breath, and remembered England’s warning about both her increased arrogance as of late, and the effects of withdrawal. _Patience with her is essential, she isn’t in a good place right now._ He could hear the other nation say in his head, and he gritted his teeth.

“If you’re so fed up with me being like this, a couple of shots will help.”

She held up her manicured hand, which he could see was visibly shaking.

“The only way to stop this is something to drink, I’m losing my goddamn mind here.”

France put the newspaper on his lap, and rubbed his temple.

“You’re relentless.”

“ _Because I need it, how many ways can I tell you that?”_ America said pleadingly in French, trying to amp up the charm that usually worked when she wasn’t detoxing.

“ _Not enough to give you alcohol, you need to dry out.”_

“Damnit.” She mumbled, shoving her face into the pillow when a wave of nausea hit. 

  
  


It was naive of him to think that England returning with everything he needed to stay at her house would relieve him of babysitting duties.

“Where are you going mate?”

France gave him a confused look from over his shoulder as he grabbed his coat.

“You’re back now, so I’m going back to the hotel.”

“No you’re not, I still have to ring her doctor.”

“That doctor has been a dick since the depression, you better not call him.” America shouted from the living room, making both men look at her in annoyance. 

“If you don’t stop cursing, I’m bringing this directly to your boss, no doctor.” France said shortly, his eyes narrowed. 

“Right, would you rather be the one to ring him then? And I’ll make sure she have something to eat.” England whispered, earning him an exasperated sigh.

“Fine, but you better not burn what I made her.”

  
  
  


“America, look at me.”

She went to pull the blanket over her head, but stopped halfway when she smelled tobacco.

“Have a smoke, and some dinner, they’ll both do you good.”

The cigarette was grabbed from his fingers before he could get the sentence out, with the hearty portion of Cassoulet* cast aside.

“You have to eat as well, it helps with the shakiness.”

She took a drag, and gave him a dirty look.

“Fuck off with that, I know my body by now.”

England sat cross legged on the carpet, and stared blankly ahead as he collected himself.

“Withdrawal is worse than hell, I bloody well know that, I’m really trying to make this easier for you.”

“Whatever, where’s an ashtray?”

He handed her the eagle shaped brass monstrosity, and yanked it away once the cigarette was thoroughly put out. 

“You’re not getting another one until France is done talking to your doctor, now eat whatever that frog cooked for you.”

“That makes it sound _real_ appetizing.” She said sarcastically, poking at a piece of meat with her fork. 

  
  


They sat in silence until France came down the stairs, with a notebook and pen in hand.

“Amelia?”

“It’s America to you.” She sneered, and England looked away so she wouldn’t see him stifling a laugh. 

“Anyway, I’ve got notes from your doctor.” He said as he returned to the armchair, elegantly crossing his legs, and putting on his reading glasses.

“If you start hallucinating, have irregular heartbeat, or start running a fever, we need to go see him in the hospital. But he’s coming over tomorrow morning, just to make-“

“I hate him, I’d rather be shot by Germany again.”

Both men looked at each other for a long moment before England spoke up.

“This is the only doctor in the country who can treat you as a nation, you realize that, aye? Stop being so childish.”

  
  


The other two looked at him in shock for what felt like an eternity.

France cleared his throat to break the awkward silence.

“He’s right, whether you like that doctor or not, you need to cooperate. Otherwise we’re getting your boss, Jones I believe? Involved.” 

She crossed her arms, and gave him a dirty look.

“His name is Lyndon Johnson, first of all, and I’d rather see _any_ other doctor that does house calls.”

“Seriously? How stubborn can you ge-”

France cut him off.

“Of course we’ll find somebody.”

  
  
  
  


“You’re the reason why she’s so spoiled.” England said through gritted teeth as he flipped through the phone book upstairs a few hours later, giving a side glance at where the other nation was reading over notes from the meeting at the desk.

“Appeasing her is easier than facing her wrath, and you raised more of her anyway.” He answered nonchalantly, turning to face him.

“Try not to lecture her until she’s back to normal, please.”

“I hate the way you spoil her, it’s disgusting.”

France made a face, and propped his head up with his fist.

“You’re the one who gave her independence after a few tears and a tantrum, not me.”

Rather than admit he was right, he took out a carton of cigarettes and lit one.

“Now, I’ve found somebody, but who’s going to call him and pretend they’re from the government?”

  
  


Footsteps coming up the stairs interrupted them, and America knocked on the door a few seconds later.

“Dad, can I come in?”

France gave England a confused look and mouthed ‘dad?’ with a confused look on his face. He whispered ‘she doesn’t call me that’ and shouted for her to come in. She opened the door and sat down on the carpet with her back against the wall, pale and shaky.

“I don’t feel good.”

He got off the bed and crouched down next to her, pressing his hand against her forehead.

“France, didn’t you say to bring her to hospital if she runs a fever?”

The man in question nodded, a concerned look on his face as he joined them on the floor.

“Is there anything we can get you before we go to the hospital?”  
  


She weakly lifted her head, and nodded.

“A drink, I’m begging you.”

“I’ll get you some orange juice, okay? No alcohol.”

Hearing this only made her more miserable, and she closed her eyes.

“I wish I were mortal so this would just kill me.”

England rolled his eyes at her dramatics, and moved some one of her shoulder length curls out of her eyes.

“You’ll make it out of this fine, I promise you that. What would your citizens do without you America? Do this for your people.”

Appealing to patriotism and her ego had always worked, and this was no exception. She opened her eyes, and sat up a little taller.

“For my people, I guess I can deal with that dick.”

“Brilliant! Do you think you can stand on your own?”

America nodded, and took her time at using the desk as a support to shakily stand. 

“Do you want an ambulance? Or us to drive you?” England asked softly as he helped her down the stairs, to no response. 

France was waiting in the kitchen, and half smiled at seeing her walk on her own. 

“I cleaned out one of your larger flasks and put juice in it, so it wouldn’t spill.” He said as he handed it to her, half expecting her to drop it. 

“Cool,” she mumbled as she uncapped the flask with some trouble, and took a sip from it, “I want y’all to drive me.”

“You’re better at driving in this country, could you drive her?”

France nodded, and took the keys to her thunderbird from the hook by the door. 

“It’s Dr. Worthington at Georgetown University hospital, you gotta ask for him.”

  
  


They made sure she was comfortable in the passenger seat, and England waved goodbye in the driveway as they pulled out. The plan was for him to call the house once America was given a room, so he could call a taxi to the hospital.

Considering that she was a nation, and got preferential treatment wherever she went, it probably wouldn’t be long, but the wait was still eating him up inside. 

All of his fingernails had been chewed to stubs by the time the phone rang, and he jumped to answer it. 

France confirmed the floor and room number, and he hung up before the other nation could finish what he was saying. A taxi was called within a few minutes, and England was on the way to the hospital before he knew it. 

  
  
  
  


He hesitantly opened the door, and found the other two nations and an older man, who he assumed was the doctor America didn’t like. 

“Right on! Look who came!” She said with a weak laugh, ignoring the look she got from the men around her. 

“I assume you’re England?” The doctor asked, reaching his hand out to shake.

“Arthur is fine, how is she?” He said as he accepted the handshake, giving America a side glance. 

“Well, withdrawal impacts her stronger than if she were human, I remember that from the first time we met back in the thirties and she was withdrawing from opium _and_ alcohol.” 

“You were a dick then too, Worthington.”

France gave her a warning look, and she smacked her lips at him. 

“Anyway, I’m glad you brought her here when you did, as she was pretty severely dehydrated, and running a high fever,” he adjusted his glasses and flipped the page on his clipboard, “do you have an estimate of how much she was drinking daily? She refuses to speak to me.”

_Typical_ England thought as he heard this, knowing her belligerent attitude well by now. 

“Erm, Francis and I found a significant amount of bottles in her home, mostly of whiskey and vodka.”

“How many?”

France looked at them and shrugged.

“We found close to a hundred empty bottles of hard liquor if I had to guess.”

“Whiskey is _not_ hard liquor, get over yourself.” America said with a sneer from her bed. 

  
  
  


Her doctor motioned for the two nations to follow him out into the hallway. The door shut loudly behind them, and they were left in the sterile silence of a hospital at night. 

Dr. Worthington sighed, and rubbed his temple.

“Amelia’s never been an easy patient, I’m sure you both know that.”

They both nodded in agreement.

“I know she’s difficult, I’m sorry for that.” England said sheepishly.

“Not your fault,” the doctor said as he looked through America’s medical history, “but we’re considering giving her a drug that’s being used experimentally on those facing withdrawal, I don’t know if you folks have heard of Valium?” 

“Me prime minister takes them for anxiety.”

He awkwardly coughed, not expecting anyone to expose government secrets that readily.

“I-well, they’re being used experimentally for alcoholics as well, do I have permission to give them to her?”

England gave a confused look, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Why would you need my permission? She’s almost two centuries old.”

“Well, she’s obviously not in her right mind, and women aren’t usually as educated about medical procedures and the like. We usually defer to a woman’s husband, but she isn’t married.”

“Of course, and how long do you think she’ll be staying here?” France asked with his arms crossed, nervous about the answer to come. 

“Until her symptoms subside, we usually keep withdrawal patients here for a few days, but because she responds more strongly, probably closer to a week or two.”

“Do we have to be the ones to tell her boss?”

The doctor shook his head.

“If she ends up in my care for any reason, the president knows immediately.”

The two nations looked at each other, and both realized why she was so resistant to seeing him.

“Johnson will be coming in the morning, and I’ll let him know that y’all brought her in.”

  
  
  


Dr. Worthington left, and England decided this was a better time than any to try comforting her.

“America?”

“Just call me Amelia.” She said dejectedly, her back facing the door as she laid in a fetal position. 

“I don’t wanna face my boss.”

England sat down by her bedside, and soothingly rubbed her upper back.

“I’m guessing you heard us outside?”

She nodded, and pulled the thin hospital blanket closer to her.

“He’s never thought I’m in my right mind, by the way.”

He didn’t have anything to say to this, instead choosing to change the subject.

“Do you want me to bring you anything when we come back tomorrow?”

“A McDonald’s cheeseburger and strawberry milkshake.”

Her former caretaker chuckled, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Nothing to make you more comfortable here? Just a hamburger?”

She turned to face him, trying to act as if she wasn’t on the verge of tears.

“Can you stay in D.C a while? And we can pretend we’re human? Not products of our government.”

Arthur nodded, and gently smiled at her.

“To being human.”

“To being human.” Amelia echoed.

* * *

Cassoulet- french hangover cure, a white bean and meat casserole


End file.
